Silver Dreams
by Dear Norma Jean
Summary: Mickey really likes dick, not in a queenie way though. Mickey also likes Ian (possibly in a queenie way).


Mickey likes _men_. _Loves_ them. Not in a queenie kind of way with rainbows and musicals and shit.

No, Mickey loves men in a primal, physical kind of way. He loves hard-muscled arms with hands bigger than his, pinning him down as flat, firm pecs pressed against his own shake with the deep rumble of a laugh. Mickey loves the feel of stubble-burn between his legs as his hands fist too-short hair; the sharp just of hipbones into the flesh of his ass as he gets fucked. Mickey loves the smell of teenage boy, of sweat and cheap cologne and the palpable air of ever-present hormones.

And dick. Mickey fucking loves dick.

The irony of it doesn't escape him. The fact that he, of all people in this fucking neighborhood, would relish in the feeling of another man above him, inside him, pressing him into any given surface, and just _taking_. The irony that he would fucking _crave_ the _toomuchtoomuchgodnotenough_ feeling of a hard cock pressing unforgivingly inside of him.

But he does. Loves it so much he could write fucking sonnets to it if he knew what sonnets even fucking were. And every time he feels that stretch, he silently thanks _something_ that the first guy he fucked around with had insisted on topping. He doubts he ever would have gotten over himself enough to admit that just the _idea_ of being fucked does it for him like nothing else.

Then again, Mickey's always done better in situations out of his control.

He used to lay awake at night, hand down his pants, trying to deny that the lips he pictured around his dick weren't attached to a man. He tried to pretend that the first time he saw porn, he'd gotten off on the bounce of tits instead of the pervasive thought _I bet it feels good to be fucked like that_.

He used to stare at the ceiling of his room after jerking off —after giving in and replacing forced images of long hair and full breasts with heavy balls and strong thighs— and wish, pray to a god he didn't give a shit about, for him to wake up in the morning normal.

He never did. And in these moments—when something more than lust is ghosting in breaths shared, as his legs tighten around Ian's hips and he would fucking _beg_ if he could remember how to speak—he's almost thankful that no one answered his prayers.

"Fuck," he just manages to pant, nails digging into Ian's biceps as they both fucking revel in the smooth drags. Drags that send pre-cum beading down Mickey's dick to smear between their bellies. He can feel the other man smirk, holding his hips more tightly to aim for that spot.

Mickey whines out what was probably supposed to be another, "fuck," but comes out a broken string of f's, cut of sharply when he's suddenly empty.

He pants out, "The fuck, man?" and pushes himself onto his elbows, more complaints cut off by Ian's mouth on his, open and wanting and making Mickey that much more eager to get him back in.

Ian pulls back, shifting onto his knees between Mickey's legs, "Turn over." The firmness of the request buzzes through him a moment before Ian apparently decides his boyfriend is taking too long and manhandles him onto elbows and knees.

Mickey groans as Ian pushes back in, too slow but _there_, "Fucking finally."

Teeth scrape against his neck, "Needy fucking bottom."

Once, those words would have coiled shame hot and fierce in Mickey. Now, he smirks, "Fuckin' right, asshole. Now give it to me."

Ian hums against his neck before siting back onto his knees, hands gripping tight onto hips, driving in slow and hard. Mickey whines at the pace, almost _feeling_ the smug smile from behind him, "Something wrong, Mick?"

In answer, Mickey pushes himself back faster onto Ian's cock. Suddenly, his face is in the mattress, a hand planted squarely between his shoulder blades to hold him down. Ian, _finally_, speeds up, giving half a dozen perfect, punishing thrusts before the hand not on Mickey's back moves up to clench in his hair. He anticipates the next move, letting Ian yank him up onto his knees, not even bothering to stifle the whine in his throat, "_yes."_

Mickey remembers when this was the only time he could be so free with Ian.

He suspects that his complete and utter willingness in bed was what gave Ian hope that Mickey might man up about the rest of their relationship in the first place.

God knows —fuck, Mickey knows too because he's not fucking stupid— he did enough otherwise to push Ian away.

But _this, _this has always been them at their basest level. No complications, no bullshit, this is what they've had down from the beginning.

Ian's head drops, rubbing his face into the base of Mickey's neck, and Mickey doesn't know if the other man is sniffing, or _nuzzling_, but the gentleness of the move contrasts sharply with the raw smack of hips below. That gentleness makes Mickey's guts swim pleasantly in a way mostly unconnected with the way his prostate is fucking _singing_ at the moment.

He'll deny it later if Ian brings it up—he won't because these things mean so much more that way—but he brings one hand down to his own hip where Ian's rests, tangling their fingers because he needs that little extra bit of contact as his heart swells with how much he fucking _feels_.

Feelings. That's the part that took them a while.

Well, took Mickey a while.

He remembers the way Ian looked at him, even back then. Smitten like a fucking schoolgirl. He didn't understand then, still doesn't understand now, how Ian always saw through his bullshit. If he thought about it—and he has, many nights, laying awake and staring to the ceiling that had provided so little counsel in his childhood and met him with unrivaled consistency in adulthood—he'd come to the conclusion that Ian understood and that Ian was smart.

Ian understood the hiding, the lying, the fear. And maybe Ian's fear was a fucking lot more hypothetical than Mickey's, but he still _got_ it.

The gay thing.

And because he got it, Ian could tell how much else of Mickey was bravado and cowardice and façade.

Mickey still didn't know how the fucker had been so _damn_ patient with him but Mickey will sure as fuck thank God or Jesus or fucking Beyoncé that the guy to fall for him was a stubborn little shit.

Because that patience means Mickey gets this _amazing fucking cock_ inside of him with impressive regularity.

Not to mention the fucker attached to it, with his fucking freckles.

(When Ian was gone, Mickey would stare at that fucking ceiling and think about kissing every fucking one of those stupid little dots and he didn't even care how faggy it made him because there was a fucking _hole_ in his chest where Ian used to be, fuck you very much.)

The sex is better now that they don't have to hide. The newfound liberty—the liberty of not worrying that being caught will mean the disintegration of his life as he had _so fucking carefully_ built it, because he had already done that and it was so worth its price in blood—had added something.

Their lips held a bit more loosely onto their groans, their hands roamed freely in the absence of the pretense that once had chased them into even these moments. Ian had been right, as usual, that night at the Alibi: he hadn't been free. The freedom he'd imagined—right down until the moment Ian stepped toward that door and he no longer had anything worth losing—was a carefully gilded cage.

_This_was freedom: fucking in his bed (their bed sometimes, more often then not but still not often enough) in daylight, the only-precarious emptiness of the house far from a hindrance now that they were free.

It still surprised him how easy he'd found it to let go. He would have thought, before, that it might take a few weeks to leave his lip unbitten against the sounds Ian brought from him (instead, before the blood was even dry, he'd panted out from on top of Ian, bouncing down with as much care for the other man's ribs as he could muster, "fucking love this, your fucking dick oh god ohgodoh_fuck_!")

And, Jesus, sex was the thing they were good at before and they weren't exactly _better_ now, but they were _more._ With Ian's chest pressed to Mickey's back like he wanted them to melt together, like he couldn't stand that this was as close as they could get.

Sometimes Mickey couldn't stand it.

Like now as he presses harder back against the man who'd freed him, just for the feel of skin on his skin as they fucked.

And Mickey likes being fucked, but he fucking _loves _being fucked by Ian.

He's not sure if he loves _Ian_ yet (not sure, but by the staccato of his heart sometimes he suspects) but he loves the surety with which Ian's fingers brush against his ribs, loves tracing the bruises from the other man's mouth —so different from the bruises he'd had before Ian— the next day. Loves the way Ian's filled out and bulked up enough to really manhandle Mickey around, but still only has to shave every three or four days.

He loves the way Ian lets him pretend to be annoyed after when the taller man pulls out and then pulls him close so he doesn't have to ask to _cuddle_ (he may be here and queer and fuck you but Milkoviches do not fucking _ask _to be the damn little spoon, okay, there's a fucking _line_). Mickey loves that he didn't really give a shit when he noticed he'd slowly started showering more, shaving more, using real fucking _hair product_ like a real fucking fairy, because Ian liked him better clean and kempt.

When Mickey lay in his bed as a child, staring at his ceiling and fucking _praying_ to be straight, he didn't know that being gay wasn't prancing around and shitting glitter about shopping sprees and manicures. Maybe it was for some people, and fucking good for them.

But being gay for Mickey meant shotgunning a beer with Ian just to watch the way the boy's throat moved as he swallowed. It meant burping contests and wrestling matches that descended into A+ cocksucking for all parties and firing live rounds half out of fun and half out of jealousy.

More recently it meant holding his boyfriend's hand and beating the shit out of anyone who gave a fuck, dinner with a hundred fucking Gallaghers that would have been annoying without the soothing touch of Ian's thumb rubbing circles against the skin of his palm.

It meant curling himself around a catatonic shell of the man he gave everything for because he didn't know what else to do but at least this was _something_. And it meant talking to Ian —despite the fact that the thing they were worst at had always been words— once he was himself again, promising not to lock him up and never to leave, but saying he had _no fucking idea_ what he was supposed to do to help.

It meant feeling like he could maybe love his son when he saw how Ian held the baby so carefully, like any piece of Mickey was so precious to him despite how it had broken off.

Mickey loves men, loves hard bodies and strong hands and broad shoulders.

But he thinks he might just love Ian too.


End file.
